Page 22 of Watcher

“You doing okay this morning?” I know the faint sound of the backdoor opening.

“No sneaking up on you,” Jessica says. She sits at the table and places her coffee mug on the table. “You don’t have sugar for the coffee.”

“It’s bad for you.” I motion at the robe she’s wearing. “You take the tag off?’

“Yup. You always keep a spare skimpy robe around?”

“It’s one of those things for just in case.”

“Yes. I’m doing fine this morning. A little sore, but I think I’ll survive.” She takes a moment to look out at the backyard and the horses at the fence that lines the backyard. “Thank you for last night. What you did and how you did it means a lot to me.”

“If you want nice things you have to treat them nice,” I say. I look her straight in the eye when she turns. “I can’t give you what your father has given you. But I can give you what he hasn’t—loving attention, excitement in your life, and the feeling of being an important part of someone’s life.”

“He does love me.”

“I believe that. A father should love his kids no matter what. Unconditionally, regardless of the relationship with their mother or anyone else.” I finish my coffee and lean forward, elbows on the table, staring into Jessica’s eyes, not because I want to take her back to bed—yes, I do want that—but because eyes have just as much to say as the lips do.

“Tell me about your accent,” she says, sending me slowly back into my seat. “You don’t have to if it bothers you.”

She’s right. I don’t have to, but I need to. “I’m from Sudbury, Ontario, in Canada. I spent most of my life up there with stopovers in Toronto and Quebec.” She looks at my hand, and I suspect she wants to know if I’ve ever been married. I hold up my empty ring finger. “Four times,” I say. “Jessica, the life I live ain’t for everyone, possibly no one.”

“You’ve always been a biker?” The robe comes apart when she moves in the chair, but she doesn’t bother to cover her tits. She’s truly a gorgeous woman.

“I have. It’s in my blood to be a biker and live this kind of life.” I set my coffee on the table and stand, leaning against one of the posts holding up the porch overhang. “I don’t blame any of the four for wanting out. I won’t blame you either. I get it.”

“They ask you to quit?” She watches me as she sips coffee. I had a feeling I would spend all morning telling my life story that nobody else had ever been interested in. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”

“You aren’t, and I need to be honest with you.”

“Because I’m young and impressionable?”

“No, because you deserve to be treated right. You need to know what you’re getting into.” A couple of horses come to the back fence, and I reach out for Jessica’s hand. She gets up, and we walk barefoot across the backyard. “Yeah, they asked me to quit. That’s something you just can’t ask a lifelong biker—to quit his club. I said no, and they said bye. Yeah, I had kids with them, and they took the kids. Said my life wasn’t a life for kids.”

“That’s why you left?”

I shook my head, dreading the next part of my story. “My first wife remarried when my son was ten years old. The son-of-a-bitch she married was an abusive asshole. I couldn’t do much about him knocking her around. In fact, she told me to mind my own business.”

“I’m sorry,” Jessica says. She reaches out and pats the horse’s head. The horse looks like he is smiling at her.

“I get a call from my son one day. He should have been in school, but he was home. Said his mom was at work. He was crying. The asshole had slapped him in the face for oversleeping and missing the school bus.” I rub the second horse, but he doesn’t smile. Both animals, like me, want Jessica’s attention.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“The asshole didn’t know my son had called me. I showed up thirty minutes later and beat the living shit out of the man” I shrug and rest my arms on the fence. “He never hit my son again, just like he never walked again.”

Jessica stopped petting the horse. “You killed him?”

“No, I did something far worse. Paralyzed the man for life.” A third horse comes forward and nudges the other two out of the way, seeking Jessica’s affection. “A warrant was issued for my arrest.”

“So you left.”

“So I left. My son is twenty now and calls me almost every day. His mother is an alcoholic, and he feels like he needs to stay in Canada and take care of her.” I look toward the horse pasture, thankful that the story was over. “How about you? Everyone knows about your father. He seems to be a good man. What about your mother?”

When she stops petting the horse and shifts her gaze to nothing, I know I’ve asked the wrong question. Not every story is meant to be told; I’m good with that.

“She died when I was ten. A mix of prescription drugs and alcohol. My Dad is a good man, but he also has his issues. People who have lots of money live in fear of losing that money. He was very demanding and spent most of his time in business dealings. We’d go weeks without seeing him while he was away working deals.” She takes a deep breath, and I slip my hand around hers. The horses would have to go find companionship somewhere else.

“It’s not easy dealing with other people’s dreams,” I say. “Big dreamers have a hard time letting others dream with them.”

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